First Second Chance
by Diana Prallon
Summary: It all comes back to you oh-so-quickly; because how could you forget? How could you not know? His face is still the same as if the decades, centuries between your last meeting and now have passed him by – but no.


The first time you see him is when it all comes back – all the memories you could not remember, all your karma – unseen, untried. In one look you can see – this man, who calls himself Ambrosious is not Ambrosious at all. You can taste the magic in his lips, so familiar, and hear the notes so beautiful and so terrible that ring through your soul; the smell of burnt bodies and imagined fireworks mixed together in one great ball; you can almost touch it, silk-like and yet so rough against your fingers (even though magic is not a physical thing).

He can all himself whatever he wants – the soul inside his body, the magic that touches him is Emrys, Emrys, Emrys – the one he called for in his sleep, the one he called for even from beyond the veil. The one man he had hoped for, waited for, dreamed for.

Even if this body calls himself Ambrosious, even if his soul is called Emrys, in his heart he has one name only – the one name your heart has ever called – Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. The only person you ever loved, the only person you ever hated, the one you betrayed. He is all the sides to you and he has all always been.

It all comes back to you oh-so-quickly; because how could you forget? How could you not know? His face is still the same as if the decades, centuries between your last meeting and now have passed him by – but no. No, his eyes are darker, hurt and it kills you because it is your fault too, your fault more than anyone; you did this to him, you did this to yourself, you did this to all of them – the fall of a golden age before it even began. The fall of a golden age because you couldn't have this man.

In the short time you had to wonder, between the break and the end, you imagined if you could, if you would meet him; and what could you say, how could you explain that you loved him too much. Too much to be the second. Too much to be ignored. Too much, so you could be the villain he wanted to see in you – you would do it, you would do anything he required, be anything he needed. If he had needed you to betray him – as Judas, but without even a kiss to remember him by – you would, out of love.

Because it _was_ love; all consuming, all encompassing; not unlike the one Merlin himself had nurtured for their king. Merlin was your survival and your death and everything in between and for that you loved him.

While you long imagined what you should – could – say to him; now you say nothing. You accept all your mistakes in one single moment, and takes your fill in watching his face – the only emotion in it being a spark of recognition before the mask takes him again – silent and solemn. You enjoy every second that you have, capturing each and every detail in your memory; the tone of his deep voice, the short cropped cut of a priest, the heavy wooden cross in his chest while he pretends to be less than he is – and even then, more than you could ever be. For the first time in this life you consider the possibility of worshiping in the altar of Christ although it would never be Christ, indeed, that you revere.

You know that there was never a chance, that it was over even before it began, and you accept it. There are no second chances for man like you.

* * *

You thought you would never forgive him – whatever he was named; Eowa or Offra – he would forever be Mordred to you; the man that had destroyed your life, your destiny. You thought you could never go past his betrayal; but that was long ago, half a millennia has passed you by and you can still recall the sound of Arthur's voice but none of his failures.

Now what you remember is his easy smile, and the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at you. You remember your cruelty, and your uneasiness – and you wonder, not the first time nor the last, how much of it was your doing. You wonder if you ever gave him the chance, or if you always pushed him away and after all you've lived through, all the centuries in solitude, you ask yourself if you didn't force his hand. You wonder how blind could you be not to see the love that shone there, the acceptance that you repaid with hate.

You know he remembers everything now, it is one of those things your magic does sometimes. It matters not whatever painful memories your mind thrusts at you, all it sees is kin, someone you lost, one of so very few and it laps at him like an overeager puppy – and for a moment you feel the touch of his gift too; bitter and strong, resonating like a warning bell and scalding hot, melting every barrier you ever raised.

You thought you could never forgive him, but now it is you that want to beg forgiveness, that wants to be absolved, that wants to understand how everything that was meant to be right turned to wrong and sour; how could love and loyalty become so torn and spoiled until it produced nothing but pain and death like a plague on the land.

For ages you hoped prepared your accusations, words to be shot in his direction, demands to be made but now they all fade like morning mist as the sun rises. All your soul, your magic and your heart can see is someone that knows you for who you truly are – someone who always knew the best and worst of you and loved you anyway. Someone who pushed you to admit all those beautiful, terrible things and to be accepted even in failure. Someone who believed in you even when your own belief failed.

You see in his eyes the moment he remembers, the doubts and the questions, the accusations and excuses, the words that needed not to be said. You see when his heart is swept again by love and the second he believes it will never be. You see it and you know those things so well – been there, seen it, felt it – that you cannot let it be.

You allow him to look through your new appearance, drinking his at the same time: still a warrior, shoulders wide and narrow hips, stronger arms and angelic curls as dark as sin and for the first time you allow yourself to want – to have. All you see is the path ahead.

When the audience is over and his steps rush to the dark outer chamber, you follow him, certain of what you will do. Your fingers grasp his, and your arms encircle him, breaths mingled together in a litany of apologies from both sides before your lips touch and your universe opens wide in redemption, in forgiveness, in compassion.

And in this second chance, for the first time, you have a chance in love.


End file.
